Clarity
by Gaosheng
Summary: Two years after Serena and Darien have broken up, they find themselves thrown together again as they embark on individual journeys to move on, let go, grow up, and find new love as adults in the real world. Will they find their way back together? Or does fate have other plans for them?
1. Chapter 1

Synopsis: This story is an AU based in the USA. It starts 2 years after Serena and Darien have broken up and follows them on their journey to move on, let go, grow up and find new love as adults in the real world. Will our two favorite protagonist find their way back together? Keep reading and find out ;)

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"Hey," he says, and before I know it, he is already kissing me, his hands pulling my waist towards him, and I forget we are still standing in front of his house. In one sweeping motion he picks me up and like a reflex I wrap my legs around his waist. When he finally breaks the kiss, he whispers into my ear, "I've missed you."

And I think to myself, I can't remember how it feels like to be missed by someone. Someone not my mom or dad or sister or brother. But someone who doesn't have to miss me at all.

Under the street lamp, everything is golden. Even the black concrete of the road is glistening; wet from the afternoon rain. But I am no longer 16. I don't romanticize how it feels to have a man's strong arm wrapped around me. I don't pretend that his words mean anything more than this. His lips on mine. The promise of bare skin on bare skin.

Because even under the light, the sky is black, and not he nor I could tell you if there was even one star to be seen.

In his bedroom he keeps a bulletin board of miscellaneous mementos. A pencil drawing of a beloved Pokémon character. A photo of his high school varsity tennis team. A birthday card signed in barely legible scrawl "Little Bro". And more recently, a friend's engagement announcement. It was pinned on top of the rest—but still several months old according to the date.

I wondered about the smiling couple. How they met and how long they were together. They had the look of high school sweethearts; the kind of look that said, "We've only known one love." Their smile gave it away; too bright to know the dimmer of unfulfilled teenage expectations. I couldn't stand their confidence.

It's that strange time in my mid-twenties when marriage seems like the perfect linear step to take for everyone else but me. While all my friends are going to go on 5 year anniversary dinners with their boyfriends, I am in the bedroom of a man I hardly know at 2 in the morning; trying to decide if I can put the puzzle pieces of his life together in time before I cross that ultimate threshold; where the only personal history people care about is the kind that can be guarded by a latex shield.

He asks me what I am thinking about, but when I turn around, I am met by the mountain of his back —not a winsome smile or a watchful gaze—but a solid impenetrable wall that I've never climbed before. And I don't know how to answer him. I don't know where to start. I want to ask if he believes that first loves can be last loves but—what do walls know about love?

"I want to know about you," I admitted; watching as he clicked away at his desktop computer.

He groaned. "That's a dangerous topic."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to fall in love with me," he laid that line like a Nicholas Sparks novel.

I rolled my eyes. Too old and too jaded to be reeled in by that reverse psychology mumbo jumbo. "Are you kidding me?" I quipped; glaring into the back of his head.

"Absolutely not. Do not mistake my intentions. I think you're sexy and I want to sleep with you, but I'm not looking for love."

"I'm not either."

"Good." He is looking at me now. A slow smile drew across his face and I tell my excited heart to relax because, I'm not supposed to feel anything for this guy, but it has a mind of its own so, it thuds fast and hard.

"You said you missed me," I try to say as evenly as I can to match his nonchalant attitude.

"Well it's been a month, hasn't it? From the night I took you to the bar?"

I nod.

"I can miss you, can't I? We had a lot of fun that night."

I am blushing at the memory. Hip to hip. Grinding in perfect unison. I NEVER danced like that. Ever.

At the time, I thought he could've been someone special. I liked the way he was a fountain of facts. He said he retained information really well from watching 60 Minutes TV programs with his mom. That got me. He was the kind of guy who spent time with his mom.

But now as music comes on I realize I am in for more than I bargained for.

"Sorry, I had to compile a playlist," he apologizes. He turns off his desk light, and in the darkness I don't see a single gleam in his eyes as he turns to look at me.

"Lay down," he softly coos, gently patting his unmade bed.

And now, for the first time since I got there, I am beginning to worry. Something about the shadowy outline of his blankets in disarray didn't sit well on my conscience. In the time it took me to drive to his house, he hadn't bothered to smooth them out—not even for me. As I lean into the mattress I feel the wrinkle of every girl before me.

He kneels onto the bed and takes off his shirt. When his lips touch mine, I don't feel his commitment in the kiss. Instead, his hands are pawing at my breasts and before I can protest, he is taking off my shirt, he is taking off my pants, he is putting on a condom—"Just in case," he says. And I think I hear myself say, No, but he replies that the tip is already in and so I let him fuck me.

I tell myself its okay. I tell myself I knew this was going to happen. I HAD to know that it was going to happen—going over to a guy's house at 2 in the morning? It was _asking for it. _It's just sex, I chanted. It doesn't have to mean anything. It doesn't mean anything at all.

When it is over, he tucks my head under his chin and holds me against his side. "How was it?" He asks.

And I wonder if it matters whether or not I tell the truth or lie because all I can think about is that I don't even know his last name—and it didn't bother me. Not one bit.

Before I leave, the smiling engagement photo taunts me on my way out. Outside, the sky is blacker than before and not even the golden glow of the streetlamp can disguise the feeling of emptiness all around. As I get into my car I dig into my coat pocket for my cellphone and look for "Do Not Call" in the address book and press the dial button.

The line begins to ring on the other end. I seatbelt and start the car. It has been almost a year and a half. It rings again. I exhale slowly and pull the car away from the curb. We were once the smiling faces of high school sweethearts. I recall the break up as vividly as if it happened yesterday. It rings for the third and final time. I am turning onto the main road. Realization is now dawning on me that I have finally slept with someone else than Darien and I don't know if I should weep or celebrate—because this is what grown women do when they get over a man, right?

Just as I was about to end the call, a voice sprang clearly from the speaker, "Serena? It's late—" I hear him groan as he checks the time. "What's up?"

"Hey…." I said, appreciating the way Darien's voice shined clearly even through the darkness. "I've missed you."

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Final Notes: Please review and let me know what you think about the story. Your input will help me greatly in further writing and expanding the story. Much love from me to you all :D Review, review, review!


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Hi everyone! Happy New Years! Please read and let me know what you think.

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"What are you doing calling me right now?" He asks; a hint of annoyance in his voice. I haven't spoken to him in over a year and he still couldn't contain his hostility towards me. Granted, it was 3 in the morning but, I could've had an emergency. I could've been in serious danger. I could've needed him.

"I…" How does one tell their ex-boyfriend they just had sex with someone else? It took me 2 years but, I did it. I actually allowed myself to be attracted to another man. But there is a terrible realization I have made, and it's that not all sex is equal. And it sounds stupid for me to have just realized that because, of course, each person brings a different level of experience and talent to the table—but I didn't expect it would be that bad. "…just wanted to see if you were up."

It wasn't that I wanted to rub it in his face. It's just that he was my best friend. And after something like this, you want to tell your best friend. Over a year and a half of silence and I just want to talk to my best friend.

"I was sleeping." And as he says this I can imagine the muscle in his hard jaw tick; giving away his calm cover.

I immediately start to feel stupid. I berate myself for calling him. The last time I talked to him he told me he was through with me; he made it very clear he didn't want to hear from me ever again. The heaviness of his words settles in my chest; smothering the small hope I carried there.

"Sorry," I say, and I don't know if I'm apologizing to him or to myself because I couldn't hide the disappointment in that one word. This night was not a good night.

"Is that it?" He demands gruffly; still half asleep. I wonder if he'll remember this in the morning. I hope he does. I hope he thinks of me.

"Yeah…" I breathed heavily into the phone; thinking maybe I could touch him that way. That somehow phones could carry the air we breathe and deposit them on the other side the way it does with our voices. If that's the only way I can touch him now, I hope he feels all the words I want to say in that one breath. "Goodnight."

"Night," he returns, and then the line goes silent and he is gone.

I want to cry. And I do. I don't fight it when it starts, and it comes readily. My chest shakes. I start to remember how hard it is to breathe without him, how it hurts to inhale because my lungs are too tired from breathing life into moments already dead. And I know these salty lips are no longer the ones he kissed. Dry skin peels away and new layers form. But I pretend—oh how I pretend—that it's been one year and seven months since he last kissed me. The truth is, these lips have never touched his, and I am realizing that that's all we are now. Dead skin on trial.

I swipe away my tears as I hit the freeway. The traffic is light at 4 AM but it is still dark. It is still night. And I am still missing him.

"Serena, darling, did you just get home?" My mother asked from on top the staircase. She was dressed in a bathrobe. Rubbing her eyes as if to clear what she thought was a hallucination of her daughter standing in the dark.

"Um, no, Mom, I just had to run back out to my car to get my phone charger. I got home three hours ago." I was lying of course, but I prayed she'd be too tired to question me.

"Oh, Dear couldn't you wait until the morning to get it? It's so early. Go back to bed, Sweetheart."

I watched my mom's retreating back until it disappeared from sight from the bottom of the staircase. Still, I didn't move until I heard her bedroom door close. I didn't want her to see that I was still in my street clothes. If she saw me, she'd know I was lying.

My parents have been more lenient on me ever since the breakup. No more curfews. No more chores. No more nagging—about my grades, about the state of my bedroom, about getting a job. I attribute this to the fact that my mom found me crying in my room one day. It was spring break and early in the morning. I never woke up early, but after the breakup it seemed I couldn't fall asleep and I couldn't stay asleep. I'd watch Netflix until 3 AM and then somehow couldn't sleep through the sound of someone using the bathroom shower at 7 AM.

"Serena, are you awake?" I remember her voice. Tentative. Almost scared.

"What, Mom?" I asked, not looking up from the pillow I had my face burrowed deep into as I sobbed.

"Are you okay, Sweetheart?"

"I'm fine, Mom." I answered this way every time someone asked me how I was feeling. And it was always enough. Even if nobody believed it. They wanted it to be true.

"Why are you crying?" I could hear the uncertainty in her voice; she didn't know if her responsibility was to stay or leave.

"Go away, please. I'm fine."

"But—"

"Go away!"

After that, _everyone_ was asking if I was okay. My mom told my grandma, my aunt, my uncle, and my friends to watch out for me. She told them I was _depressed._

The D word. She might as well tag me with a sign that said "CRAZY" on it because everyone was giving me that look with the sad eyes and patient smile. _How are you feeling today?_ They asked. _Do you want to talk about it?_ Everyone was so attentive and _nice_. And it's never good when people are nice. Because nice is hardly genuine.

I turn on my bedroom light and start stripping out of my clothes. I wanted to feel dirty, to feel contaminated, to feel like I did something wrong—but I felt nothing. And I was sure he wouldn't call me again. He "hit it and quit it" and the scariest thing was that I didn't care. How could I? I hardly knew him.

We met about a month ago in the town square arcade. He challenged me to a game—and although I was hesitant at first, I accepted. I figured there was no harm in playing a game with the guy. But then he started flirting with me—and I noticed him, I mean _really noticed_ him, halfway through our third game. He was a good looking guy. And I haven't found other men attractive since Darien.

When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. It's been almost two years, I told myself.

I didn't know that after one date and several phone calls, I'd drive to his house tonight. I didn't intend to sleep with him. I just wanted to talk. I told him "no" but he kept insisting. He took off my shirt. And then he took off my pants and…I had driven to a man's home in the middle of the night—and rape is the last thing I can call it, right? Even if I didn't want to. Even if I told him "no". I didn't fight him. Was that rape?

I couldn't shake the thought.

I picked up my dirty clothes off the floor and walked into my closet to deposit them in the laundry basket. I knew I wasn't going to sleep so I decided I'd clean. Taking out the drawer in my nightstand, I dump the contents to the floor and decide to weed through the items I had been hoarding. A box of tea I never drank. Old phone chargers. Several books. A protractor. Yu-gi-oh cards. Jewelry. Color pencils. Sun glasses. And paper. Lots and lots of loose paper.

As I gathered the paper into the trash, a crisply folded lined paper fell to the floor. I go back for the piece of paper and automatically register the handwriting of a 17 year old boy.

The letter read:

_Dear Sweetie,_

_I don't really know what to write for this but I'm going to dive right in and say what's on my mind. Which is, according to you, a "stream of consciousness." Okay. So here is my best shot. Hope you like._

_I first met you around seven to eight months ago. You were still "Pegasus" to me back then. At that time I didn't really know what to think of you. You were after all, Andrew's "prospect." Because of this, you were nothing to me. You were just another girl that one of my friends liked. As time went by and I got to know you better, I constantly had to remind myself of this. You were off limits. But looking back now, I'm glad I made the decision I made. Everything worked out perfectly, well not really, but its close enough. Andrew and I are still friends. Don't really hang out that much anymore, but the love is still there. LOL. And you, YOU are a gift from God. You have stood by me for the past six months. You have stood by me through everything. From my friends becoming pet peeves to my getting my application to Cal Poly Pamona withdrawn. And for that I thank you. And if you ever need someone to talk to or a shoulder to lean on, you can count on that someone being me. Well that is if you want me to be. So yes, in retrospect I made the right decision. You have become more than just a girlfriend to me. You are my life now. You are my everything._

_I hope you liked that last paragraph. Not just the meaning but, also how I structured the sentences and paragraph. I especially like how the paragraph started off by mentioning that you meant nothing to me and never will but, by the end of the paragraph you mean everything to me. But yeah just thought it was cool. Thought I'd mention it. Oh and any criticism/editing would be greatly appreciated I wanted to continue improving y writing since I'll be going to college soon. I know my writing now will not cut it with professors, so if you're willing to teach. I'm willing to learn._

_Love,_

_Darien_

My hands shook as I folded the letter back up and tossed it onto my bed. After I put the drawer back into my nightstand, I walked to the closet, grabbed a weathered men's T-shirt from a hanger and slipped it on. When I finally get into bed and turn off the lights, I put the letter under my pillow and hope for dreams where seventeen year old boys keep promises they make to sixteen year old girls.

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End Note: Please leave a review. All feedback is greatly appreciated and will be put towards improving the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: **Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think of the flashback.

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*****Flashback*****

The sun was high and the sky was the same clear blue it had been all summer. Underneath the shaded lunch table, I half-heartedly listened as my girlfriends talked about their CP English class—something about an assignment the substitute didn't tell them to turn in. I tuned them out. I had my own heavy course load to worry about—AP Calculus, AP Physics, AP English Language, AP U.S. History, AP Art History, and Advanced Drawing. I had spent the summer doing endless mandatory homework assignments to only feel like I'm still drowning. How was that possible?

When the Fall semester started, I promised junior year would be different. I would be an upper classman. I would be more social. I would be more involved in extracurricular activities—join a club or something. But it was already October and I had a sinking feeling nothing was going to change at all. I'd still be the quiet, nerdy girl who always does her homework assignments and let people copy off of her.

"Oh my, gosh—there he is!" Mina whispered excitedly, banging on the lunch table and then discreetly tilting her head towards the center of The Quad. "That's him! That's Soft Hands. Didn't you say he's in one of your classes Serena?"

We all turned our heads in the direction she indicated—"Not all at once!" Mina growled—but it was too late. The pale boy looked up just in time to catch our curious stares. Some of the girls ducked their heads and began to laugh but, I pretended to look past him as though looking for someone else.

In between fits of giggles, Lita asked, "Do you think he knew we were staring at him?"

As soon as he walked passed our table, my eyes went back to him. He was medium height and had a skinny build. He had deep black hair that fell just above his eyebrows and tapered in layers around his neck. And he wore a bright blue Hollister polo and faded jeans. Something about the way he walked was uniquely characterizing. There was a lilt to his gait—a gentle sashay. But not like a dancer—more like a thin tree blown about in the wind.

He had an ovular face that was still in the middle of puberty's metamorphosis. But there was something not very friendly about the thin line of his lips and narrow pointed nose he always seemed to be looking down between flipping his hair out of his eyes.

Mina laughed, covering her face in her hands, "You guys are embarrassing. Now he _totally _knows we were talking about him."

"Well, at least he doesn't know you call him Soft Hands," Rei chided, running a hand through her long hair and flipping it over her shoulder. "Why's that anyway?"

"Because his hands are SO soft! He always carries around a bottle of Bath &amp; Body Works Cherry Blossom lotion in his backpack and applies it while he's sitting at his desk. I'm not kidding—I've watched him put lotion on like 3 times in one class period. I shook his hand once and it's like a baby's!"

"Wait, you have class with him?" Lita asked.

"I used to—last year, he was in my Spanish III class. He's a grade above us. But don't you have class with him this year, Serena?"

I nodded. "AP Calc."

To be honest, I had almost forgotten he was in there. As it was a priority of mine to always sit in the front row, I rarely noticed those who sat behind me. Especially when the teacher was so intimidating. Shouting and banging his yardstick around. The only reason why I recognized him was-

Math Analysis. We had the same teacher last year but different periods. One day, I went to class in the morning and asked for help with a homework problem. I was sitting at one of the desks and he walked in and started asking me questions about the assignment. Bewildered that a guy was actually talking to me, I didn't hear half of what he said so I just told him I didn't know. He asked to look at my paper. I showed him. He frowned. And then he went to the teacher's desk to ask his question.

That was my first encounter with Soft Hands.

I thought he was kind of rude.

"What do you think of him?" Mina asked.

"I don't really know him that well," I answered truthfully.

I checked the time. 10 more minutes of lunch. Once again, being in such a rush to get to school, I forgot to grab my brown bag. I contemplate how hungry I will be if I just waited until after 5th period. I did have early-release schedule today. But a gurgling in my stomach told me it needed food.

Maybe just a snack? I am compromising, rubbing a hand over my belly.

"Hey, I'm going to the vending machine. Do you guys want anything?" There is a chorale of "no" as I dig into my backpack and take out my wallet.

"Do you want me to go with you? Rei offered, unsure of whether she should just get up and join me. It is a bit of a walk across The Quad to get to the vending machines. It is right by the stairs where all the alternatives/others sit—mocking those who pass by.

"I'm fine. You stay."

I didn't believe in the phenomena of girls traveling in flocks. By practice I've always been a bit of a loner. I like to think it's because I'm practical. It just doesn't make sense why two of us have to go to the vending machines. And then there's the awkward times where I'm asked to accompany girls to the restroom. I mean, I'll go but, I don't know why I have to suffer the smell when I don't have to use the toilet.

As I walk down the paved path across the green lawn, I relish the waning summer sun on my face, knowing autumn was going to come swiftly, turning the long days short and changing my wardrobe to sweatpants and sweatshirts. I wasn't the fashionable Fall girl. Pretty coats and scarves and sweaters and boots took too long to coordinate. And, unfortunately, I wasn't those intuitively trendy girls who can just throw on anything and pull it off. This made summer my favorite season. I was a T-shirt and shorts with the same pair of Converse shoes type person. Practical.

SunChips were my new obsession. I'm pretty sure all chips are not very nutritious but, I was comforted by the "whole grain" marketing scheme. It lolled me into a false belief that I was actually being conscientious of what I was putting in my body. Luckily, there was one bag of Garden Salsa left.

I take out my last dollar. Almost able to taste the salty goodness on my tongue. I imagine the smell. A variety of garden herbs and spices. I begin to salivate. The machine quickly takes my cash. I enter the number. And I listen intently as the springs begin to churn. The bag of chips moves forward. It inches its way to the edge—perches on the precipice…and then it stops.

I glare at the bag of chips for what feels like eternity in disbelief. When it dawns on me that I have been legally robbed and sentenced to starvation, I kick the stupid machine but it is no use. The system, ideally, should work. Money for food. But this is the problem with all systems—built-in prejudices denying poor people justice.

With a futile sigh, I clutch my empty wallet in my fist and stalk away. I make a mental note to write it into my journal. The entries would bore anyone who dared to read them. They often began: _Tomorrow I have to do an in class essay… _and ending with_…I hope I get an A._

As I make it to the center of The Quad, I notice a large group of guys headed up the path and I move to the far right to let them pass. It was really quite the strangest thing. Seeing guys move in such a herd. The only time it happened was when all the breakdancers congregate in the middle of the school to cypher. But none of them are carrying speakers—and strange as it seemed, I swear they were walking directly at me. I look down; telling myself I am imagining things.

Sometimes I too often lived in fantasy. I blame it on the fact that I am a bibliophile. I spent all of middle school with my nose pressed into 400 page novels. Savoring the smell of the paper as I held the cover to my chest, loving every story.

"Hey!"

Ten pairs of male legs surrounded my forward path. My eyes snap upward, greeting a dark-skinned senior boy I have never met before. All of a sudden, I am feeling like I am having that dream sequence where I show up to school butt-naked. Or like I am the melting clock in that surrealist painting my Art History teacher said we'd learn about later in the semester. What the hell is happening? I look into the crowd of faces. Not one was familiar.

"Hey, what's your name?" He asked.

"Serena," I say in a cautious tone; keeping my guard up, unknowing if I am going to be the victim of some cruel senior prank. I fake a bright smile. Thinking if they see me as a friend they wouldn't try to bully me.

"Hi, Serena." The same guy speaks and his voice is uncommonly sweet. It is obvious the other bodies are merely there for physical support as not one opens his mouth to say hi. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

And like that, it hit me. These guys weren't trying to prank me. They were trying to _pick me up_.

"Um…No." _This is crazy, _I am thinking to myself.

"So what kind of guys do you like? I bet you like smart guys."

A strange assumption to make, I am caught off guard by his rapid fire approach. I swallow hard, "…Sure."

"Do you know Alex? He's taking AP Calculus. I bet you'll like him. He thinks you're cute. Can we get your number for him?"

Is this a joke? I am unable to comprehend the reality of the situation. I stare blankly at the guy—not sure if I am offended for being accosted in such away or if I am pleased. Someone thought I was cute?

I give myself a mental shake. What kind of loser sends 10 guys to tell a girl he likes her? And did they really believe I would feel so moved by this "gang-up" method and suddenly be interested in a complete stranger?

"He's right over there," the same guy said, pointing and then the rest of the guys parted like the Red Sea at Moses's feet.

My heart slams into my chest as I scan the lunch table he was indicating towards and a familiar bright blue polo came into view. It was _Soft Hands._

"Hey, do you have a cellphone?" The guy asks, taking out his own from his pocket. "Here, let me get your number—you know what—just put it in." He shoves his cellphone into my hands.

It is an out of body experience as I slowly input my digits—I have no idea what else to do. It seemed throwing his phone across The Quad was entirely out of the question.

"I don't have my phone on me," I say, handing back his phone.

"That's okay—do you have a pen?"

"No."

"Do any of you guys have a pen?" He turns the question to his back up.

And it was the funniest sight. Ten guys padding their pockets and searching their backpacks all together for a pen. Finally, one of the entourage finds a Sharpie and passes it up. The guy who is speaking takes my hand and begins to write a number.

When he is done, he caps the pen and says, "His name is Alex. You should call him." And with a smug satisfied grin, he turned around and herded his cattle back to their lunch table.

I stare at the black ink on my right hand, thinking this is what a drunken girl must feel like the morning after when she finds herself with a tramp stamp across her lower back.

The bell rings. Lunch is over. Lita is running to me with my backpack.

"What took so long?" She demands.

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(6 hours later)

Stuck on my physics homework, I get on Myspace and decide to ask Andrew for help. I met him at the summer orientation. We were both volunteering as book runners, helping underclassmen find their textbooks for their classes. He was really nice. Whenever I couldn't find a book, he always helped me out. After we got our own schedules, we found out we were in the same physics class.

**Leave Andrew_BpX a comment:**

_Hey Andrew! I can't figure out how to solve problem 10 of the physics hwk! Did you already solve it? If so, how did you solve for gravity?_

The "Online" sign wasn't flashing by his profile picture. It could take up to hours before he finally answered. His profile picture was his senior portrait. His blond hair was cut short. His smile was nice. But he had the nicest blue eyes I'd ever seen. They popped because of the soft purple background.

I scroll down his profile, taking note of his likes/interests and reading the other comments his friends left for him. I am just about to exit when a picture in his Top 8 catches my eye. It is a pencil drawing of Goku from DBZ. And it was very good. Even the shading looked professional. I feel that I've seen it before but, I can't recall where from. I click on the picture and it leads me to a profile. There, I peruse through the person's folder titled "Art/Drawings".

_That looks sick! Good job, Darien! _Someone commented on the five picture portfolio. Darien? Did I know a Darien? Curious, I start to go back to his other photos but then I received a Comment Alert. It must be from Andrew, I thought to myself. I click on the comment icon and it takes me to Andrew's response:

**Serena's Comments**

Andrew_BpX (_7:52 pm):_

_You're not supposed to do 10. It's "Do problems 1-21 every other odd". LOL. _

**Andrew_BpX's Comments**

_ Serena (7:55 pm):_

_ ARE YOU SERIOUS? I'VE WASTED SO MUCH TIME! NOOOOOooo_

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**End note:** I'm so excited to hear what you guys think! Did you like this chapter? Please let me know in a review.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **I hope you guys like this chapter. It was really interesting to write. If there are any parts that are confusing, please bring that to my attention in a review. Thanks guys! Enjoy :)

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My parents told me I could be anything I wanted to be, but that I should be a doctor. Looking back, I thought I could've really done the med school thing. I was smart enough. I was industrious enough. I was ambitious enough. But most importantly, I believed that's all it would take.

***Flashback***

Vista Millbrook High School was the second high school built in the city of Millbrook. The rivalry was fierce between Vista Millbrook and Millbrook Valley High School. The latter had been there for 30 years, in a predominantly white and privileged community. One could expect the uproar when Vista Millbrook, built in the lower socioeconomic bracket of the city, soon surpassed Millbrook Valley in their national test scores. But there was nothing Vista Millbrook was more proud of than their CIF Champion titled football program.

"Get there early! Better yet—join us for the tailgate party right outside the stadium at 4 PM. There's going to be a Carl's Jr. truck giving out free hamburgers to the first 100 people, and the ASB is going to be passing out free otter pops until they run out—free otter pops! Who doesn't like that? So come on out and support your school! We're going to show those Falcons who's turf they're on and send them home crying. This is our Homecoming game and we're going to whoop some Falcon tail-feathers—not like it's hard of course because, who's the best? WE ARE! I want to see all your faces out there chanting the Mustang Spell Out, going crazy, and just having fun, you here? But we're not going to boo. No booing, okay guys? That's just not classy, and if there's one thing we Mustangs have—it's class."

That was the usual level of enthusiasm broadcasted on the school news channel every week by Mr. Jimenez, VMHS's sports coordinator and morale booster. For a balding, middle age man with a beer belly, he was surprisingly good at rallying the masses. Every home game was packed on a Friday night (I don't know if that spoke more about how much we loved football or how little there was for teenagers to do in Millbrook on a Friday night). But a Mustangs V. Falcons game was the event of the season. In the bleachers, bodies were pressed against one another like sardines in a can on both visitor and home side. Hundreds of people spilled out along the fence enclosing the track like they were waiting for a popular ride at Disneyland. The whole town was there it felt like.

I sat at my desk and doodled into the margins of my notebook as I had already watched the newscast in 3rd period. Ms. Harvey, my 6th period Advanced Drawing teacher, was a short, bubbly blonde—who although majored in English and first applied for a job as a Lit teacher was assigned Art instead. She had little tolerance for underclassmen shenanigans but she was the good kind of teacher. The one that actually cared about her students.

And that's why she wasted 10 minutes every class period replaying the school newscast just in case someone might have missed an important announcement. When it was over, she turned off the TV and climbed up onto a stepping stool to give her demonstration on charcoal.

My mind was on the Homecoming dance. Although, not as wealthy as Millbrook Valley, Vista Millbrook was still a rich school. We were far from underprivileged (I mean, Millbrook was the 2nd safest city in the United States). And our dances were a fanfare. By tradition, Homecoming was held in the gym and connected small gym but they'd be transformed into whichever crazy theme the ASB voted on. This year it was "James Bond" (I half expected crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling). The flyer boasted free Cold Stone ice cream, Starbucks Frappuccino and coffee, Karaoke, a Flip-book photo booth, caricature drawings, ping pong table games, air hockey, and laser tag. Tickets cost $45 a person.

The night before, I kept going over what happened at lunch in my head. The group of Senior boys I had never interacted with in my life. The way they looked at me, eyes gleaming and expectant. The phone number Sharpied onto my hand. The boy in the blue polo shirt—Soft Hands (A.K.A. Alex). It occurred to me in a sudden epiphany as I kicked off my comforter because my dad had turned on the was single. It was his Senior year. Homecoming was this Saturday.

His friends were obviously trying to get him a date!

I wasn't the "date" kind of girl. At least, I didn't think so—I had never been asked out to a dance before. And it never bothered me, really. I scoffed at girls who refused to go alone. I mean, think about it. What else were these girls going to stop themselves from doing if a boy didn't escort them? Would they not be able to enjoy a concert, or movie, or restaurant without a date? It was ridiculous.

But that was the cultural narrative. The High School cultural narrative. The boy asks the girl to the dance. She says yes. He shows up at her house with a corsage. When she comes down the stairs, he is mesmerized by her appearance. He asks her to slow dance. And later on in the night, she gets her first kiss—and everything is magical.

The thing is—this doesn't really happen. Not for EVERYONE. Yet, it's the main narrative we're told time and time again. It's the High School girl's real life fairytale. So we sit, we wait, we wonder why we're not good enough when a boy doesn't ask us to the dance. There is way more options for us though! There needs to be a different narrative. One that tells girls that they will have fun at the dance with or without a date and that magic is made by their own hands.

I was familiar with being single. Like I said, I had no problem with it. So as I alternated between stress and confusion in regards to school and Soft Hands, I decided I wouldn't call him.

"Ohhh, that's a lovely dress," Ms. Harvey whispered to me as she placed a box of charcoal on my table. I was visibly embarrassed because I had not been paying an ounce of attention to her demonstration. "I like the skirt—It's one of those bubble skirts that's so trendy nowadays. Is that your homecoming dress?" she asked.

"Uh—" I hastily closed my AP U.S. History notebook that I had been sketching in and slid it to the corner of the desk "—Yeah."

"What color is it?" She asked.

"Black and gold."

"Nice. I like it." She smiled in approval, and then she continued to the next table.

If it had been anyone else, Ms. Harvey would have given them a stern look and told them to put it away. But teachers liked me. I was a star student. At times, an overachiever. The girl who always raised her hand to answer the question.

Still, I was relieved.

My mind was always somewhere else whenever it could take a break. In my AP classes, I had to be focused, diligent, present. And it was exhausting. The worst part was that I developed master procrastinator skills. For the past week I've been on Myspace more than I should, talking to whoever was willing to distract me from my homework. That person was usually Andrew. And he was an unusually fast replier.

Because I had missed the instructions, I followed what everyone else at my table was doing. We went to grab a handheld mirror and a large sheet of stiff white paper from the back of the room. At our desks again, I leaned over to my neighbor, a 6'4'' basketball player, and asked, "So what are we doing?"

He took out his earbud from his left ear and gave me a quizzical look. "What was that?"

"What are we doing?" I ask again.

He smiled at me—the kind of sly smile one had when they knew something they shouldn't—in his case, he was amused that Ms. Model Student hadn't been paying attention to a five minute charcoal demo.

He points the butt of his pencil to the front of the class which was in a 90 degree angle from our forward view—and that's when I saw it. Above the sloppily done charcoal example Ms. Harvey had pinned to the whiteboard of a self-portrait, was a picture I had seen countless times before in that classroom but suddenly it had new meaning. It was a pencil drawing of a famous Super Saiyan anime character in an orange jumpsuit. And it looked exactly like the profile picture of Andrew's Top 8 friend.

I tried to recall the artist's name but, like all random facts irrelevant to my academic success, it was no longer in my brain. Picking up the mirror I studied my face and began the art assignment.

(Friday after school)

**Andrew_BpX's Comments:**

Serena (FRI 10/11/08 3:13 PM):

_Hey, did you take AP Calc AB?_

**Serena's Comments:**

Andrew_BpX (FRI 10/11/08 3:14 PM):

_no…but I have friends in it. why?_

**Andrew_BpX's Comments**

Serena (FRI 10/11/08 3:25 PM):

_Oh okay. Never mind. I just had a question on the homework._

**Serena's Comments**

Andrew_BpX (FRI 10/11/08 3:27 PM):

_you're doing your homework on a Friday?_

**Andrew_BpX's Comments**

Serena (FRI 10/11/08 3:42 PM):

_Yeahhh, I'm going to the Homecoming game tonight and wanted to get some work done. Are you going to the game?_

**Serena's Comments**

Andrew _BpX (FRI 10/11/08 3:45 PM):

_no…probably gonna chill with some friends. have fun_

Lita and I marched across the JV football field towards the mass of students that had congregated for the tailgate party. I wore my navy blue knee high Adidas socks, paired with faded jean shorts and a navy blue Vista Millbrook High School sweatshirt with the Mustang logo on the front. Lita was in similar attire, except she wore a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and had on white socks. We looked like the average girl there.

We, at Vista Millbrook, prided ourselves in our school spirit. People came out with mustang temporary tattoos on their faces, VMHS towels to wave in the air, and blue and gold face paint, pompoms, and Mardi Gras beads. It was a wild display of spirit that one could only believe on a Disney Channel Original Movie like High School Musical. Except it was real life.

As the sun sank into that perfect position where everything became illuminated in golden light, I felt strangely invincible. In retrospect, I know it was the blanket of youth. And I wore it like a cape the way a child might wear it when she has to save the world. Somewhere along the path of adulthood, we all lose that cape. But in that moment, I felt that the whole world was mine for the taking.

Music blared in the background. Teenagers engaged in inane activities to win free T-shirts and towels. Mommy and Daddy paid wallets waited in line for the food truck. Mike the Mustang was galloping about, dropping splits and doing cartwheels like a circus clown. And the majority casually separated into smaller social circles, discussing their homecoming plans.

I captured that moment like Seurat's _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte_.

"Where is she?" Lita asked.

We were supposed to meet Amy at the Otter Pop booth but, she had left her post. Mr. Whyte, the ASB Director, looked overwhelmed as he passed out the freezies to the mob of students. He might as well have been passing out amputated human body parts to a hoard of walking dead the way his mustache quivered at the clawing hands coming towards him. I could barely hear him over the music, yelling, "Get back! Get back!"

Amy was most likely watching from afar, laughing because this was her idea of a practical joke. She was an ironic, model student. Number one in our class and the Student Council Treasurer. The Otter Pop booth was probably her idea. And yet she didn't believe in having school spirit. She was at every football game and ASB event, however, and she said she couldn't be an admirable critic of the school if she wasn't an informed and involved student.

"I think they've already opened the stadium gate—do you want to grab a seat in the Magic Making Mustang section and wait for her?" I suggested after looking at the time on my phone.

Lita agreed that was probably the best plan of action. "This is _so_ like her," Lita said. We walked through the stadium gates and climbed up to the designated MMM seating.

The Magic Making Mustangs was an unofficial VMHS club that attended athletic events—mainly football—and helped to lead cheers and chants to create energy and excitement to support our teams to victory. The official mission statement. But we only sat in the MMM section because we got to stand on our feet the entire game and shout stuff. It turns out sporting events are way more fun when you're shouting.

"There she is!" Lita shouted. She jumped up on her feet and started waving madly at Amy who was climbing up the steps towards us.

"What's up, lady loves?" Amy greeted. She gave me and Lita a hug and then plopped herself down between us. "What the hell took you guys so long?"

"Serena here wanted to finish her math homework." Lita replied, pointing a hitchhiker thumb in my direction.

Amy gasped and flipped her head in my direction. "You're done? Already? I hate you."

"That's right. I am utterly detestable," I quipped, sticking out my tongue.

"So…?" Amy asked. She and Lita went silent; their eyes wide. Waiting.

"So what?" I asked.

"So did Soft Hands ask you to Homecoming?" Lita asked.

I had been asking myself that question all week. I spent the last four days like a Pokémon trainer in tall grass, half expecting him to pop out of nowhere and hoping that he wouldn't all the same because I didn't know what I would do if he turned out to be a level 1 Uninteresting. But 3rd period math came on Tuesday and I saw him walk in from the corner of my eyes and he didn't even look my way as he took his seat. If he was going to pretend he didn't have my number, then I was more than willing to pretend that nothing happened either.

Which, in fact, nothing did. He didn't tell me he thought I was cute. His friends did. He didn't ask for my number. His friends did. He didn't do anything.

"No," I answered and I wondered how long I could have made them hold their breaths. "He didn't ask me."

"Ughhh—I was so sure he was!" Amy exclaimed, eyes rolled in disappointment.

"Yeah," Lita nodded, "From your story, I thought for sure he was going to ask you. He didn't call or text you at all?"

I shook my head. "I don't even know if he got my number."

"But his friends—"

"—Yeah his friends got my number. Not him. And I've been thinking about it. I don't even know if those guys are really his friends. I mean, we only see Soft Hands with Senior girls. He could be gay for all we know."

"Okay, Serena, you sound a little crazy. That's just speculation." Amy said.

"Is it? Because what happened that lunch period was crazy. Part of me doesn't believe it really happened." I said.

The stadium lights came on. Something magical happened every time it did. It always felt to me like a movie set. A cool feeling when your life was as ordinary as mine. People didn't make movies about girls like me. Bookish, quiet, afraid to ever get in trouble, with no love interest. Girls like me played in the supporting roles for the bad asses that rebel against authority, the best friend to the pregnant high school chick, or the one giving the makeover and watching her friend win Homecoming queen. But when those lights came on, I couldn't help but think—why not? Maybe this time I could be the heroine.

There was no room to move an inch by the time it was kickoff. In the MMM we stomped our feet until the stadium thundered with our energy. We hooted and hollered at the bad calls. We sang the Mustang spell out like the play depended on it—Give me an M (M we echoed), U-S-T (U-S-T we echoed), A-T (A-T we echoed), A-N-G (A-N-G we echoed)! What's that spell? (Mustangs! We chorused) Who are we? (Mustangs! We chimed) Who's the best? (Mustangs! We howled, followed by a quick 8 count clap and then we grunted barbarically in unison)—it was crazy but it was fun. And when the band played our victory song and everyone threw up their index and middle fingers in a V in the air, we belted our alma mater with pride.

The final score was 32 – 7 and it was hard for even Amy to not feel a little school spirit as we walked to the parking lot.

* * *

**Serena's Comments**

Andrew_BpX (SAT 10/12/08 5:22 PM):

_Hey are you going to the dance tonight?_

**Andrew_Bpx's Comments**

Serena (SAT 10/12/08 11:13 PM):

_Sorry, just checked my messages right now. Yeah I did, just got back home. It was sooo fun. Did you go?_

**Serena's Comments**

Andrew_BpX (SAT 10/12/08 11:42 PM):

_Yeahh I went. My friends and I are gonna go get food now._

**Andrew_BpX's Comments**

Serena (SAT 10/12/08 11:44 PM):

_Alright! I'll talk to you later :)_

I strongly believe that the impression people have of high school dances is shaped by their outlook. If they want to enjoy themselves, they most likely will have fun. If they are dreading it, they will be terribly bored. My friends and I never waste a minute to have fun. We danced our makeup right off our faces and when we were tired, we made our way to the small gym to play air hockey and karaoke.

As we were finishing our Backstreet Boys song, Mina nudged me. "Did you see that group of Senior guys that walked in here and stood by the door?" She asked.

"No," I said, setting my mic down at the table where the teachers were monitoring the karaoke.

"Damn, I was going to ask you if those were the guys that asked for your number," Mina said, frowning.

I craned my neck in the direction of the open gym doors leading to the connecting lobby. "Where are they?" I asked.

"They're gone already," Mina answered. "But I think I knew those guys."

"Was Soft Hands with them?" I asked.

She shook her head, "No."

Mina and I joined up with Amy and Rei who were watching as Lita scared football players with her competitiveness at the air hockey table. We went to the main gym to dance for the last 30 minutes and after that we left.

When I got home, I began to upload pictures from my camera onto my desktop computer. In the 10 minute wait, I decided to check Myspace and that's when I read my new comments. I scrolled up away from Andrew's comment section and passed his Top 8—the Dragon Ball Z picture caught my eye again.

It looked exactly like the one in Ms. Harvey's class. That's why it had looked so familiar. I had seen it 20 times in the past month, hung above the whiteboard. But still I couldn't be sure.

I clicked on "Darien_BpX Shields" Dragon Ball Z profile picture and I read his profile summary:

_Sup. My name's Darien. I'm a Senior. I love to ball—Laker's are the BEST. Kobe's my hero…haha…anyways I'm good at math. I like to draw. Straight edge. Comment if you like my profile._

I don't know why I was so curious about his art—but it gnawed at me—and I can't explain it but, I wanted to know him. Maybe because we were both artists. Maybe because I was attracted to his talent. Maybe because I just wanted to know if he was the artist of that picture in class. I decided to send him a private message:

_Hey, I just wanted to say I liked your drawings. Were you in Ms. Harvey's Advanced Drawing class? There's a picture in her classroom that looks exactly like your profile photo _ _

After I clicked "send", I began to worry if he would think I was a crazy stalker. I didn't even introduce myself. I debated sending a follow up email but convinced myself to relax. I was getting nervous for no reason. I didn't even know the guy and yet it was like I wanted to impress him.

I logged off. And as I sorted through the finished uploaded photos, I wondered what the _BpX tag at the end of Andrew and Darien's Myspace name meant.

* * *

**End Note: **How was it? Review and comment and let me know how you like/hate the development of the story. What was your favorite part? What was your least favorite part? What would you like to see more of? Let me know ;)


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